warmth. The visible tenseness about him, a product of being on constant edge from his discomfort, was gone. No more pain stabbed at his fingers or any other part of his sickened body. It was as though someone had reached down and pulled the cloak of suffering from over his flesh and bones–but not his heart.
He looked down solemnly into Pruitt’s sorrowful blue eyes and beheld an expression he had seen hundreds of times before. And each time, it touched him to the core of his hollow being. The old caretaker would never let him forget the weight of his existence and those who had paid for it.
“Feeling better, Sir?” Pruitt softly inquired as tears began streaming down his cheeks.
“No,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion. Not only had the disease taken away his health, his sanity, and his soul, it had also taken away his ability to grieve.
So Pruitt did that for him.
The End
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